


Touched Too Much

by BlazeEBlake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Universe, Dean's Confession, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Night Stands, Sam Knows, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 15:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12257100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeEBlake/pseuds/BlazeEBlake
Summary: A variation on Dean's usual one night stands has him confronting his buried desires and heartache.





	Touched Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> So I did a fluffy one off, then a painful one, so here's a little of both, ish? I mean, maybe not fluffy so much as not totally gut wrenching like "Selfie" was...  
> Inspired by a response to an anon ask of @tinkdw 's on tumblr.

Dean sat down heavily in the half of the booth that faced the bar’s from doors, the cracked vinyl cushioning giving way a touch too much beneath his weight. He ran a hand over his face and rolled his shoulders experimentally, not to relieve their tension but add its burn to the chorus of aches singing through his body. Altogether it wasn’t bad at all, barely rating a five on his punishingly tolerant pain scale, and he was certain he could go for round two with the ghouls they had taken that night if need be. It had been Sam who insisted they stop, take a breather and get some food in them before heading to the next town and the next case. He’d been unsurprisingly indulgent in the past few weeks, allowing Dean to drag him all around creation on the hunting spree that had followed the disasters at Kelly’s lake house, but he was becoming less cooperative the longer they stayed out on the road. 

Sam joined him at the table, easing into the seat across from him and sliding a beer his way. Dean nodded his thanks and took a hard pull of the drink, not so much relishing the cold bitterness of it as willing it to fill the gaps that the physical pain couldn’t in blocking out the places his mind wanted to take him against his will. One thirst well on its way to being sated, he set the half-drained bottle down and began surveying the dimly lit room for means to satisfy another. 

“Really, Dean?” he heard Sam sigh.

“What?” he asked, his attention still very much fixed upon the bar’s sparse patronage.

“You know what,” Sam insisted flatly, “It’s been wash, rinse, repeat for weeks now. Like, nonstop. Don’t you think you should-”

“Should what, Sam?” He turned back to him with a warning glare that only managed to give his sibling momentary pause.

“Should... Give it a rest maybe?” Sam offered, “At least a long enough one for us to catch our breath, maybe figure out where Jack is or how we can get Mom back?”

“So In other words,” Dean replied “sit and stew on while you figure out what I already know, which is that Lucifer Junior’s in the wind and mom’s gone, again? That about right?”

“Yes,” Sam continued, “Jack got away from us, though, can you really blame him after the introduction you two had?”

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy for trying to shoot the literal spawn of Satan in the face?”

“Bottom line, we can’t just let him stay out there on his own, literally weeks old, with all that power. And as far as mom goes, she’s tough. If anyone can survive over there, it’s her. So I’m not ready to give up just yet.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re able to keep that sunny disposition shining outta your ass, but after the shitstorm we went through, I'm less inclined to see a rosy side to all this."

"Dean, I'm sorry about C--”

“No.”

“Look, I miss--”

“I said no, Samuel, and that's about as nice as I'm gonna say it from here on out.” At this, he turned away and resumed his search.

“So, what?” Sam resumed, “You're just gonna keep running yourself into the ground, drinking more than even _your_ liver can handle, and hooking up with the first girl that makes eye contact? You really think that that'll help, or that you can even keep that up?”

“Sure as hell gonna try anyway,” Dean said gruffly, scrutinizing his limited options, almost desperate now. 

“Well,” Sam scoffed, “Good luck. There's hardly any girls in here to begin with.” As his brother uttered this bit of derision, Dean's eyes settled on the only individual who had returned his glances during his broad sweeps of his surroundings, the only one close enough to his type to be bothered with. If things were different, there was no way he would even consider it, in part because he wouldn't be in need of the kind of comfort found in the repeated, sweaty, and near-wordless exchanges, not to mention the obvious deterrent of Sam's very persistent presence. But things weren't different and he needed this. He'd tried the blackout drunk thing but that meant a morning after of hangover-induced pause, and pauses meant an opening for thinking about the person he really wanted, had been too cowardly and unsure to come clean to. The person he'd kneeled over on that beach after--

Dean cut off his mental wanderings with another swig of beer.

“Yeah,” he finally replied, near slamming down the now empty bottle, “That's not gonna be a problem.” He stood and rolled his shoulders again, properly schooling his gaze on his would-be conquest.   
“Hang on,” Sam protested weakly, “I thought the whole point of coming in here was to get dinner.” Dean ignored him and stalked off to the bar at the opposite end of the room. He took a seat several stools down from the rest of the clientele and caught the bar tender's attention with hardly any effort at all. 

“What can I get for you?” the man asked, eyebrows raised.

“'Nother beer” Dean said, voice inadvertently deepening, “Same as before. I think it was--”

“I got you,” he replied warmly, reaching beneath the counter and pulling out a bottle identical to the one he had just downed. 

“Thanks,” Dean mumbled as the drink was placed before him. 

“No problem. Anything else I can do for you?” A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, but it was the way his too-blue eyes seemed to bore into him that had Dean caught between looking away and staring too long. 

“I, um,” he attempted, his earlier, steely resolve flagging, “I mean, well-- No, not at present.”

“... Alright,” the bartender said, frowning with a kind of amused confusion before turning toward the other customers. Dean cursed under his breath and snatched up the bottle, not bothering with the pretense of enjoying it as he drained it in a handful of hasty gulps. The decision to finally take this kind of plunge was one thing, but putting it into practice was quite another, burning need for distraction aside. When he set the finished drink down on the counter, said potential distraction caught sight of it and headed back in Dean's direction.

“Another one?” the man said with a nod at the empty.

“Yeah,” he agreed, giving a nod of his own.

“Will that be all?” he asked as he set another beer down between them. Dean opened his mouth to reply and then closed it, briefly breaking eye contact when his tongue nervously darted between his lips.

“Uh,” he began, forcing himself to resume their shared gaze, “Maybe I got this all wrong but--”

“You're making this way too hard,” the man said, leaning toward him conspiratorially.  

“W-what?” he sputtered.

  
“You're working on a decent sized panic, but there's no need for it, so try taking a breath, for starters.” Dean did as he was told, visibly folding. 

“Its just,” he babbled, "I've never-- I mean I have but not with-- Shit. I don't know how to do this.”

“Like I said,” the man mused, “you're making this way harder than it needs to be. You got yourself over here, and you didn't read me wrong. That's half the battle over with.” Dean chuckled in spite of himself, managing a smirk a touch closer to his A-game. 

“Yeah?" he said, “And what's the other half?” The bartender raised a finger and leaned away from him. 

“Hey, Steve!” he called over his shoulder. 

“Yeah?” a voice returned from somewhere beyond Dean's line of sight. 

“I'm taking a break. Think you can cover?” he asked.

“Oh man, with all this booming business? I guess I'll have to manage. Yeah, g'head.” The bar tender turned back to Dean with a look he recognized well enough on any gender and his mouth went dry in spite of all he had imbibed. 

“Gimme ten minutes,” he said, leaning even closer over the counter, “Then meet me in the staff bathroom, just past the sign in the back.” Dean nodded, swallowing roughly, and watched the man hook around the corner of the bar and leisurely make his way to an open doorway just past a shabby pool table several feet to his left. 

This time he nursed the beer, trying to shake off his sudden bout of nerves and the hopefully false sensation of eyes on his back. It was just another hook up, a means to an end that meant one less moment trying to force down things he wasn't ever going to be ready to deal with. Sure it was a guy and not some cute little waitress, and yes, it was the first real taste of a long line of fantasies he hadn't been sure he would ever indulge, but at the end of the day ass was ass right? And it wasn't a bad looking ass at that if Dean's brief glimpse was any indication. 

He repeated these weak affirmations in his head over and over until he had emptied another bottle, and once he was sure ten minutes had passed (eleven actually, just to be safe), he got up and moved toward where he had seen the bartender disappear. 

Past the doorway was a long hallway, with customer restrooms to the left and the promised 'EMPLOYEES ONLY' sign beside another doorway on the right. After taking a quick moment to glance around  for anyone watching, Dean ducked into the right-hand entrance, immediately finding a loose collection of beer storage and a closed door that he hoped was the staff bathrooms. With a deep breath, he raised a closed fist and knocked. 

The door cracked open almost immediately and the bartender popped his head out, face shifting from a guarded wariness to a something pleased and intimate when their eyes met. He jerked his head sideways and pulled the door back further, allowing Dean to enter the modest compartment before closing and locking it shut behind him. He then stepped back, giving Dean a chance to take in the sight of him. 

He had removed the work shirt he had been wearing while behind the bar, leaving him clad in a t-shirt that revealed a well muscled chest and arms, and jeans whose undone top button hinted at the preparations that had necessitated the wait he had earlier imposed. He was just a touch shorter than Dean, with dark hair far more tamed than--No. He was there to keep all of that out. 

“So,” the man said, raising an eyebrow, “Not that I'm trying to rush you but--” Dean surged forward, and captured his mouth with his own, trapping him against the wall and putting an end to any further conversation or thought. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but he was surprised by how good it all felt, how much he enjoyed the simultaneous sensation of soft lips and scratchy stubble. He pressed their bodies closer together, fisting one hand into the front of the bartender's shirt and tangling the other in his hair. The man ran a hand under his shirts in response, and when his fingers over whispered over one of his nipples, he let slip a groan that gave entry to an expertly probing tongue. Before long, Dean was undeniably hard and almost unconsciously rutting against the man's thigh.

“Hey, Hey,” the bartender gently chastised as he broke them apart, “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I didn’t get things ready for nothing. We’re short on time, but I wouldn’t want things to end too soon, you know what I mean, uh--”

“Dean,” he offered breathlessly.

“Dean,” he repeated, “I’m Aaron, and if you’re good to go I’m about ready for you to fuck me.” Dean barked out a short laugh at both his straightforward request and the irony of it all. Of course that would be the name of the first guy he nerved up enough to do the dirty with. 

Aaron palmed Dean’s throbbing length through his jeans with a playful but insistent impatience and all at once they were kissing again, this time occupying their hands with undoing various zippers and buttons, and sliding a condom over Dean's considerable arousal. By the time they were sufficiently undressed, and Aaron had spun around to face the wall, they had both reached the stage of things that Dean understood no matter the partner. It was that moment when simmering desire gave way to a cloying, maddening need for the deepest kind of friction and all the release that it promised, when every second spent not giving in was just shy of torture. 

“Are you sure?” Dean muttered, leaning forward to teasingly ghost his lips over the man’s shoulders, “I mean, you don’t need—“

“What I need,” Aaron countered throatily, “is you, inside me. Now.” Somehow, the timbre of the his voice, combined with the forcefulness of his command, managed to both further arouse and sober Dean all at once. Drawing in a shaky, anticipatory breath, he gripped one of Aaron’s hips, positioned himself at the man’s entrance, and eased himself inside, groaning in unison with the bartender as he sheathed himself to the hilt. After a brief moment spent savoring the feel of Aaron tightly enveloping him, he pulled back and gave an experimental thrust, relishing the sharp gasp he was able to elicit from his partner. Confidence and ardor building, he wrapped his now free hand around the man’s chest and began fucking into him, his gradual pace growing faster and harder with every passing moment and every clench of Aaron’s taut, coiled muscles. 

“Yes, yes,” Aaron rasped, “oh god yes... Dean, Dean...D-Dean...” Something in the way he rumbled his name the third time struck him at his core, sending his thoughts in the direction all this was meant to avoid. It wasn’t enough to stop him, and in fact, it drove him to press forward with that much more fervor. But for all the urgency and distraction of every electric sensation, the memories, useless wants, and the pain tied to all of them wouldn’t go. Dean felt a sob building in his throat and he leaned forward once more, this time gently biting into Aaron’s shoulder to muffle himself. The bartender cried out, constricting Dean even further and shocking him back to the moment. Soon, his thrusts grew more frenzied, Aaron’s responsive bucking more stuttered and unbridled. 

“Dean,” Aaron keened, “I’m—I’m so close. I... I need... “ Intuiting his labored request, Dean dragged his hand from the bartender’s hip and took a firm hold of his sweat and precum slicked member. With a series of tight-fisted jerks, Aaron’s words fell away into a raw, guttural moans as the man came. In the throes of his release, he spasmed wildly around Dean’s own hardness, but it wasn’t until the man gave one final, gravelly croak of his name that he followed him over the edge with his own strangled cry. They collapsed together, Dean against Aaron and Aaron against the wall, gently rocking with the aftershocks of their orgasms. After a moment, the bartender pulled himself off of Dean with a low hiss and twisted to face him.

“That,” he began, voice soft and breathy, “was aces, D—Hey, are you alright?“ His contented smile morphed into concern and as he reached up to tentatively caress his face, Dean was suddenly aware of a treacherous moisture on either of his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Dean reassured swiping at one of his eyes, “Yeah, man. It was just— You were amazing.” Aaron scrutinized him for a few beats before letting it drop with nod, and pressing a gentle, parting kiss to his lips.

 

* * *

 

By the time Dean returned the booth he and Sam had briefly occupied, it was empty. He checked his phone and found two texts from his brother, one stating that he would be at the motel next door and the other providing a room number. Huffing out a sigh, Dean ambled over to the bar and laid down the cash needed to cover his tab and provide a tip that he hoped spoke more toward general good service than untoward thanks for the off-menu stuff that had gone down in the back room. He chuckled to himself over the pitfalls and implied etiquette of bar hook ups and started toward the exit. As he took hold the front door’s weathered handle, he venture a glance over his shoulder just in time to see Aaron returning to his post. He caught Dean’s eye and winked enigmatically, drawing the faintest creep of a blush into the hunter’s cheeks before he finally headed out into the dive’s parking lot and the motel beyond. After a short walk, during which he steeled himself for the conversations he planned to avoid, he found the room Sam had chosen and knocked. 

“Yeah?” he heard Sam’s muffled voice call out, followed by the even softer click of a gun’s safety.

“It’s me,” he replied, “Open up.” 

“Me who?” Sam asked, an edge of feigned ignorance creeping into his tone.

“Stop being a dick and let me in, Sam. It’s late and I’m exhausted.” There was a brief pause and then the door opened, Sam’s looming frame suddenly taking up much of the entryway.

“Yeah?” he snarked as Dean pushed past him to get inside, “And who’s fault is that?” 

“You want a name?” Dean shot back, shrugging off his jacket and sinking onto the edge of the bed farthest from the door, “Details even? Cuz if you’re looking for a play by play—”

“Oh, god no,” Sam protested, pulling a face as he locked the door and returned to the table in the corner of the room and the laptop resting on its surface. 

“Hey,” Dean shrugged, “You asked.”

“Trust me dude,” he insisted, closing up the computer and moving to the remaining bed,  I’m good... Are, uh, are you though?” He seated himself on the edge of the mattress, fixing Dean with that worried look that always came before big talks, and he felt himself stiffen.

“Honestly,” Sam went on, “I’m surprised that you’re back before tomorrow. I mean, that’s usually how it goes anyway.”

“How it goes?” Dean repeated, raising an eyebrow. 

“Or,” Sam suggested, “how it’s been going. You’re either drunk off your ass and passed, out or gone somewhere with some stranger until morning.”

“Yeah, and you know what all those times have in common? Not talking about—“

“Anything? Literally anything about what’s going on with you?” 

“Exactly Sammy. Because, and I’m pretty sure I’ve said it enough but here’s a freebie, I don’t wanna talk about it, OK?”

Dean shook his head and grabbed the bag Sam had set on the shared nightstand, retreating into the narrow bathroom to get ready for bed, and to escape that damned look his brother kept giving him. 

He took about as long as humanly possible to brush his teeth and wash his face, and when he was finally re-emerged he was greeted by a mercifully darkened room and an ostensibly sleeping Sam, draped in a too thin blanket with his back to him.

“Silent treatment, huh?” Dean muttered, “Now we’re speaking my language.” His brother didn’t respond, and he almost would have believed he was truly asleep, were it not for the lack of snores that he had come to expect from years of cohabitation. That said, he wasn’t about to prod his brother into exactly what he’d managed to cut off, so without another word he stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt, climbed under his own covers, and closed his eyes. 

It only took him a few minutes to realize sleep wasn’t going to come. He was familiar enough with the feeling, that inability to shut off and the sensation of all his mind’s floodgates starting to open. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, jaw clenched in frustration. He should have had more to drink or suggested he and Aaron go for round two off premises, or... No.  Less than deep down he knew none of that would have worked. Just like his brother had suggested earlier in the night, he couldn’t keep it all going. He’d run a trifecta that night: hunting, drinking, and fucking, and it had barely done a thing. He had cried (cried!) into a stranger’s shoulder for fucks sake! But, if none of that was working any longer, then he was out of options beyond facing it all down in his head or...

“I,” he began, barely above a whisper, “I can’t talk about it, Sam. Because saying it, out loud means... It means he’s really gone and I can’t—“ He broke off, clearing his throat and fighting off more physical evidence of his misery, in spite of the darkness.

“I know,” Sam replied softly, “I miss him too, Dean. And I’m sorry that—“

“I’m not ready for that deep dive,” he interrupted, “Not here anyway. Maybe... Maybe after we’re back home.”

“Home... As in the bunker? But what about the haunting over in Mint Hill?“

“I think it’ll keep. I guess it’s like you said: going like this, I can’t—It’s not helping.”

“OK.” The weight wasn’t all the way off of his chest, and he was certain he was in for some less than pleasant dreams, but he felt something shift just enough to have his eyelids drooping. He had just about given himself over to his hard won sleep, when a restless thought jabbed at him, jolting him one step back from rest.

“Hey Sam?” he tried.

“...Ye-Yeah?” His brother answered, voice thick with his own fading consciousness. 

“The... The guy thing,” he said, struggling against his discomfort, “Tonight? It wasn’t about him. Cas, I mean. Maybe partly but, I think... I know I’ve always—“

“Dean. I know. Like, I’ve known the whole time, alright? Even before Cas.”

“OK, but—Wait, what?”

“Yeah, so it doesn’t change anything, including the part about me not wanting details.” Dean coughed, not sure if he was indignant about having his big confession deflated or relieved at not having to formally go over all the hairy details of it. They lapsed into an easy silence once again, until a final, lighter notion surfaced and brought a rare smile to his face. 

“Hey Sam,” he repeated.

“Yeah?” his brother grumbled, mild annoyance now edging at his tone.

“The guy?” he chuckled, “From tonight?”

“Oh, Dean, come on. It’s not any funnier with guys. I don’t wanna—“

“His name was Aaron.”

“...Bullshit.”

“I swear, on my car.”

“That’s... Wow. Just, wow.” They shared a few moments of muted laughter, not unlike the kind of forbidden snickering they’d exchanged as children when they were meant to be sleeping, and when it all tapered away into heavy, stuttered breathing, Dean was finally able to sleep.

 


End file.
